Boss I Love To Hate Read online

  Berlin

  “It’s the best deal you’re going to get in light of these charges,” I explain.

  My client, a nineteen-year old kid named James, leans back in his seat. He’s been charged with battery after a bar fight left a man bloodied and concussed. The prosecutor, Archie Denton, is thankfully a longtime veteran and a reasonable man to work with. But my client is a knucklehead who thinks the world owes him something.

  “You’re my lawyer, right?” he asks. “And you gotta do what I tell you to do?”

  “Yes, I’m your lawyer,” I reply. “And ultimately, I do have to do what it is you want me to do. But I have to tell you, if you push this and insist on taking it to trial, you are going to lose. And when you lose, you’re going to do some time. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Maybe not, though,” he sits back in his seat with a smug look on his face.

  I sigh and drop my pen on the file in front of me. I lock eyes with him, hoping my expression conveys the gravity of his situation.

  “They have you on video, James. They have you starting the fight, throwing punches, and hitting the man in the head with the beer bottle. You shouldn’t have even been in the bar in the first place,” I tell him. “The evidence against you is irrefutable, and I promise you that if you insist on going to trial, you will lose.”

  He scoffs. “You don’t sound like my lawyer,” he spits. “Sounds like you’re with the cops.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do what you want, James. But I negotiated a deal with the prosecution that lets you off with probation,” I tell him. “That means no time in jail. But if you’d rather throw that all away and go to jail, that’s fine. It’s your life.”

  I gather my things and shove it all into my bag, probably more irritated than I should be about this. But this kid is as dumb as he is ungrateful. I could have mailed it in and let him do the two or three months he likely would have been sentenced to. Not only will I get paid the same, but I also wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep about it. After all, he put himself in this position.

  I get to my feet and head for the door before stopping to turn back to him. “There’s a clock on his deal,” I inform him. “The prosecutor wants a decision in forty-eight hours. Think about it and call my office.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, I walk out of the conference room and slam the door behind me. I know I shouldn’t be as upset about this as I am. In the grand scheme of things, this is meaningless and isn’t some outrageous travesty of justice. Whether James does probation or spends a couple of months in jail doesn’t matter. Hell, maybe he’ll learn something if he gets locked up for a bit.

  As I walk out of the conference room, I head back to my office and glance at my watch. I give thought to digging into my next couple of cases, but it’s not only closing in on six, but I’m salty as hell, so I decide to call it a day. I tidy up my desk, grab a couple of things from my drawer, then head for the elevators, avoiding all eye contact with the others in my office who are staying late.

  The doors slide open. I step out into the lobby and head for the front doors, anxious to get out of here.

  “Berlin.”

  I don’t recognize the voice and consider pretending I didn’t hear him and just keep moving, but when he calls my name again, I sigh and turn around. I blink at him stupidly a couple of times when I see a familiar face standing there smiling at me.

  “Berlin Roth,” he says. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Rider Douglas,” I respond.

  Back in college, Rider was Sawyer’s right-hand man. And given the fact that I saw them together at the borough board meeting, I’m assuming that job description hasn’t changed.

  “Still cleaning up Sawyer’s messes, I see?” I start. “That must be a full-time job.”

  He flashes me a grin. “Hey, it’s a living.”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you want, Rider?”

  “I’m here to escort you to dinner,” he announces like it’s obvious.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sawyer would like you to have dinner with him,” he replies. “He’d like to talk to you about the Atwell project.”

  “Tell him he can do all of his talking in court.”

  “He’s actually hoping to avoid going down that path,” he tells me. “And frankly, I think both you and I know that going to court is a losing proposition for you.”

  I narrow my eyes as I stare at him, my blood starting to burn with anger. The worst part of it is that I know he’s right. I can file for all the injunctions I want, but at the end of the day, the decision will come down to a judge to make the call on whether to grant it or not. And dishearteningly, most of the judges in the city have been growing progressively more pro-business.

  I talk a good game and try to exude optimism, but the truth is, I have no idea if I can get an injunction for eighteen hours, let alone eighteen months. But I’m certainly not going to admit that to Rider – which is admitting it to Sawyer by extension.

  “It may perhaps be a losing proposition, but it will throw a wrench into the gears for you guys,” I tell him. “I can hang things up for you guys.”

  “Maybe,” he shrugs. “But you don’t do business in this city as long as Sawyer’s family has without making some allies and learning which wheels to grease along the way.”

  I stare at him, completely dumbfounded. I mean, I understand that what he’s saying is probably true. But that he’d lay it out there like that is kind of unreal to me – backroom deals are called backroom deals for a reason. The arrogance of these two is astounding.

  “So what you’re telling me is that the game is fixed,” I say, putting as much venom into my voice as I can. “So I should just take my ball and go home.”

  “No, what I’m saying is that in this town, it doesn’t hurt to have friends in positions of power,” he replies.

  “Great, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Rider sighs. “Listen, you forget that I grew up just like you – working-class family, had to rely on scholarships to get me through school –”

  “We are nothing alike,” I snap. “So if you have a point, you better make it because I really do have someplace to be.”

  “We are a lot more alike than you obviously care to admit, Berlin,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. “But my point is that Sawyer really is a good man. Admittedly, he’s a bit out of touch with working-class people and the poor –”

  “You can say that again,” I cut him off.

  “But because I grew up without a lot, and have sympathy for those like me, I do what I can to steer him toward being fair to people – like those at the Atwell – as well as the less fortunate,” he goes on. “And frankly, it would do some good to have an ally in his life. I think we can both be a very good influence on him in terms of making him more – socioeconomically aware.”

  “Except that I’m not part of his life.”

  “Not yet,” he presses. “But I think if you get to –”

  I shake my head, a frown creasing my face. “Did he really send you down here to set me up with him,” I cut him off, “like some idiotic teenage boy? What kind of ridiculous high school garbage is that?”

  Rider chuckles. “No, actually he didn’t ask me to fix you two up. He’s of the belief that ship has sailed,” he says. “What he did ask me to do was to convince you to have dinner with him, yes. But only because he knew you’d shoot him down on sight.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “He would like to talk to you, Berlin,” Rider presses. “See if there’s some sort of understanding the two of you can come to.”

  “An understanding?” I gape at him.

  Rider shrugs. “Well – yeah.”

  “Not bloody likely,” I spit. “That man stands for everything I despise in this world.”

  “That’s fair,” he states. “But what if you could have a hand in turning him into something you don’t despise – somebody who can do
a lot of good for the causes you’re so passionate about?”

  “I don’t see that happening,” I scoff.

  “There’s one way you can find out whether it’s a viable plan or not,” he goes on. “Come on, what’s it going to hurt? It’s just dinner.”

  I have to admit, the idea of getting access to Sawyer’s fortune and influence to help shape policy for low-income housing in the city is appealing. Really appealing. With an ally like Sawyer on my side, I know we could do great things for a lot of people. We could potentially end the homeless crisis in the city. Or at least, make great headway on it.

  But at what cost to me, personally? I shudder to think what he’ll want in return for the use of his money and power. Sawyer isn’t the sort of man who does something for nothing. I doubt my feminine wiles and charms will be enough to influence him to seeing – and doing – things my way. So, what is he going to want in return?

  It’s a good question, and unfortunately, I know there’s only one way I’m going to get an answer to it. I sigh and look over at Rider.

  “Give me a minute to make a call,” I tell him.

  He nods, and as I turn to step away, my bag slips off my shoulder. I curse loudly as it hits the ground, sending things everywhere. Rider quickly stoops and helps me gather my things. I look around to make sure I got everything when I see him holding the pill bottle in his hand. He looks over at me, his eyes filled with concern, as well as the one thing I hate most in this world – pity.

  “Donepezil,” he says softly. “That’s for –”

  I snatch the bottle out of his hand and quickly stuff it in my purse, feeling my face flaring with heat. I’m torn between wanting to tell him to mind his own business and pleading with him to not tell Sawyer. This is my issue – a private issue – and I don’t feel it’s necessary to tell the world my father has Alzheimer’s. The last thing I want is the pity that comes from such a statement. I don’t want or need anybody’s pity. Especially Sawyer’s.

  Ultimately, I decide to not say anything. Maybe if I don’t make a big deal out of it one way or the other, Rider will assume it’s no big deal, and it will all be forgotten soon enough. Or that he’ll have the discretion to not run back and report to his boss. That’s what I’m banking on anyway.

  “Just give me a minute to make a call,” I tell him.

  “Take your time.”

  I fish my phone out of my bag and call Nadia to let her know I’m going to be late tonight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sawyer

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I remark.

  “I wasn’t going to, at first,” she fires back. “And next time you want to talk to me, do it yourself, rather than have your lapdog come fetch me.”

  Berlin takes a seat across from me at the table in Vito’s, a small Italian bistro I sometimes frequent, that I had Rider bring her to. Even fresh out of work, not having had a chance to freshen up, or put on something nice, Berlin is breathtaking. Not even a drab gray, off the rack business suit, can dull her beauty.

  “I don’t think Rider would like being called a lapdog,” I chuckle.

  “Well, what should I call a man who does your bidding – such as asking me to come have dinner with you?”

  “A friend helping another friend out,” I say, feeling a small flash of irritation at her characterization of Rider. “Friends do that, you know.”

  “What I know is that you probably could have said what you needed to say in a phone call,” she hisses. “Or better yet, an email.”

  “Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your sparkling company.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, clearly not amused. I clear my throat and take a sip of my water. The waitress comes by. I order us a bottle of wine and look over to find Berlin staring at me with a dead-eyed expression on her face, radiating impatience and irritation from her every pore.

  “Come on,” I tease. “Can’t you at least try to lighten up and enjoy dinner with me?”

  “This isn’t a social visit,” she snaps. “Rider said you wanted to discuss something about the Atwell with me. I’m here – so speak.”

  I nod. “I do,” I say. “But talking business makes my throat dry.”

  “Sawyer –”

  I hold up my hand, my frustration with her growing. “Look, I asked you to come to dinner with my tonight, so we could have a civilized discussion about everything,” I say. “I happen to like wine with my dinner. If you’d rather not have a glass – don’t. It’s up to you.”

  She sits back in her seat, the irritation on her face matching what’s likely on mine. I swear to God, when she gets her blood up, everything is a war with her. The woman will not back down from a fight. Ordinarily, it’s an attribute I admire in a person. But right now, as I’m doing my best to get to know her and smooth the waters between us, it’s goddamn frustrating.

  The waitress arrives with two glasses, and after letting me taste the wine, she pours for the both of us. Berlin looks at the glass like taking it will be admitting defeat or something. As she ponders her decision, I pick up my glass, raise it to her silently, then take a drink. Almost grudgingly, Berlin picks up her own glass and takes a sip – somehow managing to look brooding, pouty, and like she’s doing me a favor the whole time.

  A moment after she brings the wine, the waitress brings out an antipasto plate for us to start with and then takes our dinner orders. I take a couple of pieces of prosciutto and cheese off the plate and pop them into my mouth, chewing contentedly.

  “I took the liberty of ordering this before you got here,” I tell her.

  “Great, thanks.”

  Still holding her wine glass, Berlin sits back again and looks at me expectantly, but says nothing. She’s definitely not going to make this easy for me. Granted, she’s got a right to be pissed – I didn’t give her the full story when I know I should have. I can’t order her to not be pissed at me. Although, it sure would make things a lot easier.

  I take a drink of my wine and set the glass back down, then lean forward, laying my forearms on the table, and lock eyes with her.

  “You know, supposedly in the East, when somebody apologizes, it absolves them of further guilt or punishment,” I start.

  “Well, we’re not in the East,” Berlin notes with a slight raise of her glass. “Which means I can go on punishing you and making you feel guilty as long as I want. Also, you haven’t apologized anyway.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You are a tough nut, Berlin Roth.”

  “In this town, you have to be,” she remarks. “And also, I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “But in my defense, I didn’t actually –”

  I bite off my words when I see her eyes widen, and her expression darkens. Playing semantics games with her probably isn’t going to win me any points or do anything to smooth the feathers I’ve quite obviously ruffled.

  “Just know I didn’t start out intending to – not tell you everything,” I explain. “It just sort of happened. And I’m sorry for not telling you when I should have.”

  She purses her lips as she looks at me, quite obviously noticing the fact that I still refuse to cop to technically telling a lie – because I don’t think I did. Lying by omission may be a thing in the legal profession, but out here, I think not doling out information until it’s necessary is just smart business.

  “Anyway,” I go on, “I understand why you’re upset, and for that, I apologize. I really mean it.”

  “I’m just curious about something – how do you do it?” she starts. “How do you sleep at night knowing you’re sentencing a lot of these people to a life on the street?”

  The question takes me aback somewhat, but before I have to answer, the waitress arrives with our meals. I inhale the garlicky aroma of my clam and shrimp alfredo and smile. Vito’s has the best alfredo sauce in the city – and in New York, that’s saying something. Berlin ordered the chicken piccata, which is also very good
. I give her a smile.

  “Tell you what,” I begin. “How about we just enjoy a lovely meal together? We can talk shop, and you can make me grovel for your forgiveness after.”

  For the first time since she sat down, a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth – but she’s quick to quash it. Instead, she raises her wine glass and taps it against mine, the high-pitched ping of the glasses seeming to dissipate some of the tension in the air.

  “Deal,” she states. “Just be ready to do a whole lot of groveling.”

  I laugh softly. “That’s fair.”

  The conversation as we dig into our meals is slow and tentative at first, but it gradually loosens up. It’s not altogether that long before we’re joking and laughing together again. Of course, the bottle and a half of wine we’ve gone through may have helped grease the wheels, but whatever. The important thing to me is that the atmosphere between us is light and jovial. As we talk and laugh together, there’s a sparkle in her eye that’s good to see. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that she was having a good time.

  Moments like these have been rare in my life – moments where I’m completely at ease with a person. With Berlin, I feel like I can be less guarded than I usually am. She makes me feel comfortable in ways nobody else has before. I know I told Rider those doors that led to a future with somebody – a family of my own – were closed to me forever. I said it because I truly believed it. Have for a long time.

  But Berlin makes me see things differently. She makes me feel things I haven’t felt before. Makes me believe things I never thought possible – or at least, not realistic. I’m not saying there’s a white picket fence, two-point-five children, soccer mom, PTA meetings, and minivan life in our future. There’s just something about her that makes me think anything is possible.

  But I know the laughs, smiles, and kumbaya moments we’re sharing all have a shelf life. It’s a thought that bums me out. Though hopefully, we can get through the tough, unpleasant bits and circle back to this place we’re in right now. That’s my sincerest hope for this evening – that we can find a way to keep things light and headed in a good direction. I want to explore this thing between us, and judging by the look in her eye, I can see that Berlin does as well.